


you say that you're no good for me

by cryoreal



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cousin Incest, Dark, Half-Sibling Incest, Past Abuse, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-10 16:46:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11695788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryoreal/pseuds/cryoreal
Summary: "You can't protect me. No one can protect anyone."Canon divergent AU where Theon and Sansa don't jump, Battle of the Bastards proceeds as usual, but instead Jon is fighting to rescue Sansa. Mix of show and book canon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic, so please be gentle! Let me know what you think, and if I should go on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Halsey's "Ghost."
> 
> This is my first fic, so please be gentle!

The gates of Winterfell slammed open under Wun Wun’s fists, revealing what was left of the Bolton forces - a small retinue, indeed. Jon strode forward, Longclaw still tight in his fist. Ramsay Bolton stood calmly, too calmly, in the middle of the courtyard, wearing clean, undented armor and his ever-present smirk. Just the sight of his smooth, shiny armor made Jon grit his teeth. Of course, Ramsay was the type of man to let his forces fall without lifting a finger. 

Longclaw lowered at his side. “Where’s my sister?” 

Ramsay’s eyebrows raised just the slightest amount, just enough to enhance the smug look on his face. “She’s my wife now, and she stays where I leave her. She’s so obedient, did you know? She wasn’t at first, it took me a few weeks to break her, but when she broke…” he trailed off, waiting for Jon’s reaction. 

Jon took a deep, measured breath, trying to keep himself from leaping at Ramsay. He didn’t want to set a precedent for mistreating his prisoners. “If you take me to her now, I will personally ensure that you are not harmed.” Ramsey emitted the quietest chuckle. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Jon’s hands shook at his sides. Everyone knew what scum Ramsay was, how he treated Lady Hornwood, the constant fear that those under his thumb felt. He seemed too calm for the situation, one leg slouched, an easy grin on his face. Like he had nothing to be afraid of. 

One step at a time, Jon advanced across the courtyard, muscles bunching and releasing like that of a stalking panther. “They say you’re the best swordsman in the North,” Ramsay said conspiratorially. “They say you can’t be killed. Well, I’ve never met a man who didn’t beg for death by the time I was done with him. Come forward, Jon Snow. Come and see what I can do. In fact, let’s make it a game!” He beckoned with one lazy hand, and one of his men rushed to his side with a bow in hand. His eyes glinted maniacally. “If you can make it to me, I will grant you mercy.”

Quick as a lion, Jon snatched a shield from the ground and pulled it up with a grunt, narrowly stopping the first of Ramsay’s arrows. Ramsay tsked, and quickly notched another, while Jon’s pace quickened. _Sansa, he thought. I must find Sansa._

Another arrow released, and was quickly blocked by his shield. Ramsay was entirely too confident in his abilities. _Where is he keeping her?_ A third and final arrow punctured his shield, and Jon was close enough that he flung it away and launched at Ramsay’s pretentious, smirking face. His fist drew back, again and again, pummeling that face into the earth, blood splattering as he heard the crunch of Ramsay’s nose and then teeth shattering. It wasn’t until Tormund appeared at his shoulder that he drew back from the bloody mess he had created. Ramsay’s chest rose and fell shallowly, wheezing out of his mouth, yet he still managed to quirk his mouth into something that Jon assumed would be a smirk, if his lips shrunk back to normal size. “We came for Sansa,” Tormund reminded him gruffly. 

“Tie him up in the kennel,” Jon commanded, and turned to the man who had handed Ramsay the bow. “Where are they keeping her?”

“In - in - in the lord’s chambers,” he stammered frantically, before stumbled backwards out of Jon’s way. He found his way through the halls and stairwells, remembering the way as well as the day he left, yet found himself pausing outside the door, the ghost of Catelyn Stark seeming to suddenly well up in front of him, reminding him of his place. He shook his head firmly, steeled himself, and opened the heavy door.

It took a moment for him to adjust to the dim lighting in the room. Every window was shuttered, and not a breath of air whispered through the room. There was no dust to settle on the heavy furniture, and for a moment it seemed that the room was empty and he had been misled by Ramsay’s man, to give them time to spirit his sister away before Jon found her. As his eyes scanned the room, though, he paused on a particularly large lump of blankets and bedding piled in a corner, which seem to be quietly shaking.

“Sansa?” he whispered, not wanting to disturb the way the room lacked the energy of the living. He heard a quiet squeak, and the bedding shuffled ever so slightly, confirming his hunch. “Sansa, it’s me. It’s Jon.” 

***

She burrowed further into the wall, pulling the blankets tight around herself. It’s a trick, it’s a trap. It’s not Jon, it’s one of his men, one of the ones I haven’t met before. Sansa knew that if she trusted too quickly in a mystery voice, she would be punished. Ramsay did love his games, and although she didn’t much like to play, the games still went on. 

One of the blankets shifted while she stayed still, and she shrunk further into herself. She huddled next to the wall, trying to control her shivering. _I am Sansa Stark, the daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn. This is my home. I must be strong._ Her blankets were peeled away one by one as she steeled herself. _I am a wolf of the North. I must be strong._

As her last layer of protection vanished, she set her jaw and raised her chin defiantly, ready to meet whichever scum Ramsay had chosen this time. She was met with the long face and slate-grey eyes of the Starks, curls as black as ink pulled away to reveal a strong jaw and wary features. He looked too familiar. Where did Ramsay find a man who looked so like… like…

“Jon,” she breathed uncertainly. His eyes instantly warmed, and he extended a hand through the hole he made in her shelter. “Sansa. I’m so glad I found you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa’s wide, frightened eyes peered out at him through the dent he made in her makeshift bed. He could see that her skin had lost the glowing, ivory luster he remembered from when they were children, and her auburn hair hung around her face in unkempt mats. Not for the first time, Jon ruminated on murdering Ramsay for mistreating Sansa so. 

She allowed him to pull back more and more of the bedding until her entire body was exposed to him. She looked too thin, the bones of her legs and arms pressing against her skin with sharp, jagged lines. As if she hadn’t eaten in days.

Finally, she took hold of his extended hand and emerged slowly and quietly from the corner, her breaths coming quickly, almost frantically. “Is it really you?”

“It’s really me.” Her eyes roamed his face, his body, looking for confirmation that the man in front of her was in fact the boy she once knew. He seemed stronger, leaner, more sturdy, and he was covered in the gore and grime of the battlefield, but his eyes were much too familiar for her to doubt any longer. Forgetting that she was only wearing a linen shift, that she hadn’t bathed in weeks, she threw her arms around his neck and collapsed into his body, sobbing.

Tentatively, his arms wound around her to return her embrace. As her face nuzzled into his neck, he tightened his arms, hoping that their steadiness would leech into her wavering form. After a long few moments, she seemed to steel herself and pulled back, her eyes searching his. “Where is Ramsay?”

Jon hesitated before answering, and in his silence, Sansa grew only more insistent. “Is he… dead?” 

“He’s not dead yet,” he answered curtly. She nodded, and unentangled herself from his embrace. Only then did he notice how thin her shift was, now covered in dirt and blood, slightly clinging to her curves where the blood seeped through. His eyes found her face again, and he suddenly felt ashamed for looking at her nearly naked form. To distract himself, he asked “Are you hungry?” 

She nodded distantly, her bare arms coming together as she shivered. “Where are the rest of your clothes? I could help you into them, if you’d like…” he trailed off as her head snapped up, her gaze scared yet unwavering. “Or a robe, even? You must be cold.” Her nod came slowly, and she seemed to float across the room on too-thin legs to a wardrobe before pulling on a heavy woolen robe, embroidered across the hems with silvery direwolves. “I’ll send for a tray to be brought up for you,” he began, and she practically jumped out of her skin.

“Please, don’t leave me.” Her voice trembled as she strode back across the room, her hand closing on his forearm as he tried to turn to the door. He turned back, slightly aghast at her speed as her grip tightened further. “Please.” 

“You need to eat,” he said gently. “I’ll come down to the hall, then,” she begged him, “but please, don’t go.” Jon felt a pit form in his stomach, and his hand came to rest on her cheek, soothing the tears away from her skin as they fell, gentle as rain. 

“I’ll only go to the door and call for a servant. I promise I won’t leave the room,” he smoothed his fingers over her hair before pressing a soft kiss to her forehead and guiding her to the lone armchair that sat before the empty fireplace. She curled into it at his behest, dark eyes never leaving his as he crossed to the door and called out into the hallway. After a long moment, a dark-haired serving girl hurried into the hallway, stopping short when she saw Jon standing in the doorway. He beckoned her closer, and spoke softly into her ear. “A tray of food for Lady Sansa, and please ask one of your fellow ladies to draw her a bath.” With a quick, startled nod, the girl backed out of the doorway and rushed down the hall, skirts swirling.

Jon shut the door and turned back to Sansa, suddenly aware of the state of his armor and tunic, crusted in sweat, mud, and blood, mostly Ramsay’s. Her eyes followed him as he stripped off boots, tunic, and jerkin, leaving himself in his undershirt and breeches, and settled himself on the floor near her feet. Although her eyes were trained on his, she seemed to be far away, with her feet drawn up onto the chair, her arms hugging her knees. They sat there in silence until there came a knock on the door, startling Sansa so badly that she began to shake again. Jon smoothed a hand over her knee to calm her, and then quickly opened the door.

A different maid than the first stood with a serving tray, holding black bread, fruit preserves, a hard-boiled egg, and a pitcher of wine. Jon thanked her quietly, and held the door open for the dark-haired girl who was carrying a small bucket of soaps and oils. She excused herself and crossed to a previously unnoticed door to his left, where he heard a hiss from the wall where the hot springs flowed and began to fill the bath. 

“I’m willing to help Lady Sansa with her bath,” the girl began, but upon seeing Sansa’s frightened look, he took it upon himself to quietly excuse the maid and shut the door firmly behind her. “Sansa, you must eat something,” he said again, and she picked up the bread with fingers delicate as a bird’s and began to pick it apart. After watching her tear the bread to crumbs and begin to pick at the egg, he reached out and stilled her hand with his own. It felt small and fragile in his, her bones about to break through her skin, thin as paper. 

“Sansa, he can’t hurt you anymore. I’ll protect you.”

Her head snapped up and her eyes pierced him with more intensity than he’d ever seen. “You can’t protect me. No one can protect anyone.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things got a bit darker than I ended, so I changed the tags to reflect that. As always, let me know what you think!

Sansa stood in front of the still-steaming bath in just her shift, her bare feet cold on the stone floor. She ran a hand around the edge of the tub, knowing that she needed this yet scared to step in. With one jerky movement, she tugged her shift over her head and sunk into the deep tub, sighing as the heat wriggled its way under her skin. 

She hadn’t looked at her reflection in months. There was no point, Ramsay had insisted, because she was only worth looking at while she was with him. He was the Lord of Winterfell now, and even though Jon was in the next room, claiming that Ramsay was defeated, he was still alive. As long as he was alive, Sansa was not safe. Even now, her eyes flicked back and forth between the tub and the door, wondering when it would burst open and he would be standing there again, the whites of his teeth showing through a predatory grin, ready to play another game.

She sat in the tub until the water turned cold, not bothering to use the oils that her lady maid had brought for her. There was no point in making herself pretty, when Ramsay would come back and take it all away again. She tentatively traced one of the scabs on her upper arm, from one of the more recent of his games. It had a twin on her other arm. Everything was symmetrical. He always left her face, though. He liked her pretty. 

“Sansa, are you okay?” Jon called through the heavy door. She didn’t bother to respond. After several long moments, the door opened just a crack and Jon’s head peeked in, eyes averted. “You’ve been in here a long time.”

Her head hung down, chin pressed to her chest and knees drawn upward. His eyebrows knitted in concern. “May I come in?” 

She didn’t respond to that, either, and he slid inside, shutting the door behind him. Her hair was still dry and tangled, only the ends darkened by the water. He knelt next to the tub and gently stroked her cheek again. Only then did she move, turning her face into his touch. There were no tears for him to wipe away this time, only a dull, unfeeling look spread across her face. He reached into the bucket and came up with a soft cloth and a bar of soap.

He reached for her hand and gently soaped up her arm with no resistance. As he wiped away the grime, scars and bruises began to pop out at him from her pale skin, some yellowed and old, some blue and purple, only a few days old. He forced himself to stifle the anger bubbling up in his chest to focus on the job at hand, cleaning all the way up to her shoulder before shifting her hair to wash the back of her neck and her back and work his way around to her other arm. Only then did her eyes drift up from the dirty water to meet his. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.

He gently soaped her chest, ignoring the way her breasts felt under the cloth, instead focusing on how concentrated the scars and scabs were on the outsides and undersides of her soft skin, in the places that her dresses were sure to cover. “Would you lean back, please? I’d like to wash your hair.” She stared at him, her gaze unreadable, and then she slid forward to allow him access. He used a cup to cascade water over her hair, marveling quietly at how the color darkened and spread, turning from copper to auburn. 

Once he was finished with her hair, he offered her a towel from beside the bath. Sansa stared at it, and did not move. Why was he helping her so much? Ramsay would be back soon, and then Jon would regret being so kind to her. Ramsay didn’t take well to anyone coming within ten feet of her without his permission. “Please, Sansa,” Jon whispered, his arm stretched out to help her. 

She took his hand and rose, unashamed of her nakedness in the way that Ramsay trained her to be. She long ago discovered how to stifle how uncomfortable she was, to hide her pain, keeping any modicum of control to herself as she could. The pain was always great, but her pride was greater. Nevertheless, Jon stared straight down at the floor as she wound the towel around herself and murmured a quiet “thank you.” 

“Would you like me to send for a maid, to help you dress?” He may not have known, but she had no maids, no one that was hers alone. The women were all spies for Ramsay, every one, and she trusted no one that worked for him. He would be back, and when he learned of the kindnesses she had been shown, she would no doubt be punished. The food, the bath, the presence of another man without his permission… if she had only committed one of the slights, the consequences wouldn’t be too great, but all three… she knew better than to allow this, yet here she was.

“I can dress myself.” She had long ago grown used to choosing only the simplest of her gowns, the ones which laced up the front, so that she required no help. He nodded, short and uncertain, and opened the door to lead her into her chambers again. She could sense his hesitance, and so she beckoned to the chair near the empty fireplace again so that he had somewhere to sit while she dressed. Her room had little in the way of comforts, but a lady always offered what she had.

Settled in the armchair, Jon tried his hardest to focus his gaze on the ashes in front of him. He could hear Sansa rustling around behind him, but he would not turn until she was dressed, as it was far beyond acceptable for him to be in the room with a nearly naked woman. _Not that it stopped you before,_ a voice niggled at the back of his mind, but he shoved it away. She had needed his help, and he would not deny her any kindness he could. Her scars were too visceral for him to ignore, and he would ease this transition as well as he could for her.

“What will be done with Ramsay?” She drifted into his sight, looking close to an angel in her simple, sweeping gown of grey. “I haven’t decided yet,” he answered honestly. Ramsay was a prisoner, and Jon had no doubt he deserved to die, but the manner of which he had not decided. _The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword._

“He should die.” Her bluntness startled even herself. She knew that she didn’t want Ramsay to come back, to gaze down at her with that sly grin he liked so well, but until this point she hadn’t realized the possibility - that he could, in fact, die. 

“He should, and he will.” Sansa stared down at him with a growing hardness in her heart. Until this moment, she had lived in fear, and loathing. She hated Ramsay, but she was afraid more than anything. Now, her fear was melting away like the spring snows, and her spine seemed to straighten of its own accord. She looked upon Jon, the hard lines of his arm and chest visible through his thin undershirt, and knew what must be done. 

“I will tend to him myself,” she declared, unforgiving. Gone was the fear that had plagued her until only a moment ago, that had seized her muscles and kept her from moving. It was as if a light had flicked on, and she realized what it truly meant for Jon to be sitting in her chambers, bruised and bloody but mostly unharmed. He had defeated Ramsay, yet Ramsay was not dead. There was only one logical reason that he was not dead, and that was because it was not his life to take. It was hers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think next chapter the wheels will really begin to turn. Thanks for reading!

Jon stared up at Sansa in complete shock, her imperious tone still lingering in his ears. _I will tend to him myself,_ she had said. Surely she didn’t mean that she would kill him. He had not seen Sansa in many years, but she was certainly still a lady, and her position as Lady of Winterfell would have reinforced that behavior even more. Killing was a lord’s duty, not a lady’s, and he wanted the satisfaction of watching Ramsay die.

Her face was etched in marble, determination pouring out in waves as he slowly rose from the armchair. For all of the pain he caused her, she felt that she deserved to see to his sentencing. She was the Lady of Winterfell, and all crimes in the North fell to her. She would try him, sentence him guilty by the scars on her back, and then she would kill him herself. “Where is he?”

He took a slow step towards her. “He’s tied up in the kennel, with his dogs.” _Gods know how he loved those dogs,_ she thought bitterly, and turned to face one of the windows, watching the snow swirl delicately outside. “That’s no fit place for a noble prisoner. Find him a spacious cell, provide him with a meal, and be sure that you have two men posted on the door. Your own men, men that you trust explicitly.” 

Anger swirled inside Jon’s belly like a tempest storm. “You want him to be treated that well? After all he’s done to you? Sansa, he does not deserve it.” 

At that, she whirled back around, and deadly slow, said “I am well aware of what he _deserves,_ Jon. Please take care to remember that you’ve only just arrived at Winterfell. I have been here for months. I know very well how to run my castle.” 

He took a tentative step toward her, and another. She stood by the window like a queen, fingers laced together at her hips, head held high. In another lifetime, he had thought her smug, rude, and untenably pretentious. Now, he saw her courtesy for the iron it concealed. 

“Please see to it that Ramsay is moved to a suitable cell, and inform the people he will be tried within the sennight. As his widow, I am the ruling Lady of the North, and I will sit in judgment myself. Thank you for your help, Jon. I appreciate it greatly.” Her tone brooked no argument, and with a curt nod, he saw himself out of her chambers, boots echoing down the hall at a pace slightly faster than was deemed necessary. 

After Sansa was sure he was out of sight, she closed the door and then sank against it, sobbing as quietly as she could. Her strength had dissipated the moment he left, and she again felt wrung out like a wet rag, with nothing left inside of her to hold herself upright. _I am the eldest surviving child of Winterfell. I must be strong._ In the empty room, the fear began to creep in again, and she regretted sending Jon away so coldly. Drawing her knees to her chest, she spotted her nest of blankets, still snug in the corner of the wall, and it took all her energy to crawl back over and sink inside, layering them one over the other, with just the smallest hole open by her feet to allow air to travel in and out. Only then did she feel safe, the weight pressing heavy over her body, and she succumbed to the exhaustion in her bones and fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

Jon’s hands shook slightly as he came down the stairs and crossed the busy courtyard. His men swirled around him, but it was Tormund who suddenly loomed up out of nowhere, his face tight but still smiling. “What is it?”

“We put most of Ramsay’s men into one of those buildings over there. They seemed pretty keen to get away from him, if you ask me,” he replied with a vague gesture. “You’ve been gone a long time. Did you find your sister?”

“I did.” Distracted, Jon tried to edge around Tormund, failing spectacularly as the man grabbed him by his bicep and practically shouted. “So, where is she, then? I’m excited to meet any family of yours. Although, I’m not sure she’d brood quite as well as you do.” 

“She is in her chambers, and I’m sure she wishes to not be disturbed. I have a better job for you. Do you have any men that you trust? Better than the others, anyway.” 

Tormund’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Aye, I do.”   
“Pick any six and tell them to find me in the dungeon. They will be tasked with guarding Ramsay Bolton, so choose them carefully.” If he was surprised, Tormund hid it well, and with a tight nod and a squeeze on the arm, he turned and left Jon to his task. 

He slid the door to the kennels open and was instantly bombarded with the sound of the dogs barking and tugging at their chains. Ramsay was placed in the center, arms and legs bound together and head bowed, lifting it only when Jon’s shadow fell across him. 

“Are you back to take me on again, Snow? I’m not sure it’d be a fair fight this way.” His face was still bloody and broken, but his grin never faltered. 

“Lady Sansa has decided that you are to be moved to a cell more fit to your status as a noble.” Jon nearly spit the last phrase through his teeth. He thought the kennels suited him just fine.

“What a thoughtful woman, my wife. I can’t wait to see her once more. She and I have some… things that we left unfinished.” He leered at Jon, and he had to grind his teeth to keep himself from pummeling his face into the dirt again. Instead, he yanked Ramsay to his feet and marched him across the courtyard, into the Great Keep and down the steps, where he met Tormund’s men, who were in their mid-thirties, grizzled and hardened in the way that only wildlings were. 

He shoved Ramsay into the nearest cell and locked the door, turning to Tormund’s men. “Two of you, guard the door now and until the moon is high in the sky. You two, until dawn, and you two, until mid-afternoon tomorrow. Trade shifts as you wish, but if there are less than two of you at this door at any time, you’ll answer to me personally.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters will be coming a little bit more slowly now. We discovered that our bathroom needs entirely redone down to the subfloor and drywall, so most of my free time will be going there. I'm still going to write as much as I can, but please be patient!
> 
> As a peace offering, this chapter is about twice as long as the others, though it's still pretty short.

Sansa was made for the Lord’s chair. Her spine was straight as an arrow, chin held high, fingers splayed out but relaxed. Jon could read the tightness in her neck, the shallow breathing in her chest, the anxious tells he had learned over the past week. They had spent morning and evening together every day, breaking fast in her solar at dawn and then splitting up during the day, Sansa to run her household and Jon to train in the yard, to spar and train the wildlings and young men that Ramsay had left behind after the battle. Everyone around them seemed in awe of Sansa’s quick recovery from the chains of her marriage. No one saw the cracks in her foundation, except for Jon, who watched her fingers shake as she embroidered before bed as they never shook before.

Neither of them were sure of Jon’s position at Winterfell. His watch had ended, and he had captured the castle, yet he had abdicated the position of lord to Sansa, as was her birthright. A bastard could rise high in the world, but he would never usurp her of her right - especially since he could not be more proud of the way she ruled the North. Instead, he sat at her right hand and lent credence to her words. The North must always be ruled by a Stark, but they still didn’t take too kindly to a woman in Ned’s high seat.

The doors to the Great Hall swung open, and Ramsay half walked and was half dragged inside, wrists bound in front of him. The week in solitude had not done him justice, and he looked half a corpse as he stumbled to a stop before her. In that moment, he looked a beggar. In that moment, she looked a queen.

“Ramsay Bolton.” Her voice rang clear as a bell. “Your charges today are for continuing the practice of flaying, which is outlawed in the North. You also mistreated your former wife, Lady Hornwood, as I have heard firsthand from a servant from her household, who will remain nameless. Of these charges, I declare you guilty. The punishment for flaying is death. You will be hanged at midday.” 

It started low in his chest, a rumbling chuckle, then rose to a full belly laugh. “What’s the point of this trial, wife? You didn’t even give me a chance to defend myself. Where are my witnesses?” 

“Witnesses for what?” Her chest rose and fell a little bit quicker now, and Jon tensed in his seat. “I am a firsthand witness to your flaying. I do not need to testify to myself. I charge you guilty.” 

“My lady, this seems unfair.” His tone darkened, and his smile spread. “If you cannot call forth any witnesses, you cannot charge me. I demand to be tried fairly.” He leaned forward, on the tips of his toes. “I demand trial by combat.” 

Her chin raised even higher. “Who will your champion be, then?” 

“No champion. I will fight myself. What about your champion, dear wife?”

“I do not require a champion, either. The time of your death will not change.” She cocked her head to his guards. “See that he is in the courtyard at the proper time. He may be armed, but no armor. Take him back to his chambers now, please. You are all dismissed.” 

The hall slowly emptied, save for Sansa in her high seat and Jon, who was now visibly shaking, his knuckles white with how hard he was gripping the chair. He watched and waited until the hall had emptied, and then turned his head as calmly as he could manage, as angry as he felt.

“You absolutely cannot fight him, Sansa. Let me be your champion.”

Her head whipped around, and the fury in her eyes overcame the fear. “Do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do.” She picked up her skirts and crossed the hall, with iron in her spine. Jon leapt down and followed her out and through a maze of hallways until she reached her solar, where he slid inside behind her before she could slam the door in his face. 

“How _dare_ you?” she hissed. “You have no training,” he countered, deadly soft. “You’ve never even held a dagger. He will kill you in an instant!”   
“He will not. I’m not as fragile, as you think, Jon,” she spat back, pacing back and forth across the room. “I can defend myself as well as anyone else. I’ve lived with him for months, I know how he thinks, how he acts. He thinks I’m a helpless little girl to be squashed under his thumb. I am a Stark, I will always be a Stark, and you cannot stop me from killing him. He is _mine_.” 

“I didn’t mean-” Jon caught her by the arm as she passed by him and she spun on her heel,the look on her face venomous. “Sansa, _please_. I couldn’t bear to see you hurt, not after…”

Her expression softened, but only minimally. “Don’t worry. Please. I know what I’m doing.” 

“Do you?” he whispered, and his free hand came up to smooth a stray lock of hair from her face. “Say the word, and I will champion you. No one will think less of you. No one expects you to do this yourself.” 

“I _must,_ ” she insisted, her gaze lingering on his. Before he could stop himself, he lifted his chin and pressed a kiss to her forehead, the hand that was on her face sliding to the back of her neck to gently press her head downwards.

With a heavy ache in his heart and a furrowed brow, he turned on his heel and left her solar, wondering what would become of his sister. 

* * *

As the sun poured into her chambers, Sansa called for one of her handmaidens. A few days after Jon’s arrival, she had new servants assigned to her, and she knew that he had something to do with it as they were all wildling women. The Sansa of old would have been disgusted by these women and their lack of knowledge and etiquette. Now, she was grateful for the women’s frank and blunt attitudes, their unwillingness to flower their words. She needed honesty more than ever.

“Daya, did you visit the smith like I asked you to? I had an order in.” 

“Yes, Lady Sansa. I have it in your solar, waiting for you.” 

“Thank you, Daya. I won’t be needing you for the rest of the afternoon. If it please you, you may visit with your daughter.” The woman broke into a huge smile, and fled the room with a nod. Once she had left, Sansa was able to let her spine fold backwards, and her knees drew upwards to her chest. She had dressed in jerkins, tunic, boots, held up with a belt because the only ones she could find were much too big for her slim waist. She wore a cloak she fashioned herself, and left her hair in a single braid down her back, to keep it out of her face as much as possible. _Jon is right,_ she thought. _I may not be able to do this._ Nevertheless, she swore to herself she would. She would look into his eyes and hear his final words as he died. It was the Stark way. 

With one last squeeze to her knees, she pulled herself together enough to cross into her solar, quickly spotting the package Daya had left her on the desk. It was a dagger, fashioned to fit her small hands with ease. She knew that she’d never be able to swing a longsword, but she could manage a dagger just as well as anyone else. She tested the tip with her thumb, wiping away a spot of blood on her pants before tucking the sheath into her belt and the dagger with it, and then taking a deep breath to calm herself. She must not let Ramsay into her head today. No matter what he had done in the past, she was in control now, and she must remember that. There was no room for a breakdown today. 

A short knock sounded at her door. “Come in.” She hoped her voice did not betray her frayed nerves.

She raised her eyes to find Jon, who looked shocked to see her dressed so informally. “It’s nearly midday. I thought I would escort you to the yard.” 

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Jon.” She rose to her feet and pulled her braid over her shoulder self-consciously. He was very pointedly staring at her feet. “Are you quite alright? Am I wearing the wrong boots?” she gently teased. His chin popped upwards, and she thought she noticed a hint of a blush on his cheeks. “No! You simply look… different.”

“Different,” she echoed, and heat coursed through her body as his gaze traveled up, up, up to her eyes. Somewhere in the back of her mind, there was a repeating chant of _he is your brother,_ but she could barely hear it over the heat of his glance. “Well, let’s get going, then,” she murmured, and he seemed to snap out of his trance and offered her his arm. 

“I’m still not comfortable with you doing this,” he said in an undertone as they wound their way downstairs, her hand cradled in his elbow. 

“You don’t have to be.”

The doors to the courtyard opened, revealing a massive crowd of what looked like all of Winterfell, gathered in a circle. Any other day, Sansa would have been upset that they were shirking their duties. Today, she didn’t mind. There would be no question of what happened today. 

The crowd parted like water, and she shrugged herself out of Jon’s arm before gliding forward, smooth as a snake. Nevertheless, he followed close behind until he was in the front row of the crowd, his eyes never leaving her form as she walked up to Ramsay, whose wrists were still bound as he knelt in the dirt. 

“Ramsay Bolton. Are you ready to commence with your trial?” 

Ramsay’s voice was quiet, but Jon was one of the few close enough to hear him. “Sansa, you know you’re not strong enough. You are my wife, and you must obey me in this. I don’t wish to kill you this way.” 

Her voice rasped, silk over steel. “Luckily, you won’t have to.” Turning to his guards, she commanded “Cut his binds, please, and give him his weapon.” They exchanged an uneasy glance, and then followed orders. Ramsay stood on shaky legs and tossed his hair out of his eyes, a feral gleam to them, and began to circle the courtyard, his steps growing surer as he found his pace. Jon had never been more afraid in his life as she stood still, watching him pace around her. 

_She is too still,_ he thought to himself. If she stood still for too long, her muscles would tense too much. She was calm, her hands resting on her hips, beneath her cloak. Jon knew she must be armed, otherwise she could not hope to win, but he hadn’t seen any sort of weapon on her person as he led her to the yard. A dagger, then. Small enough to be concealed under a cloak.

Ramsay crossed back into her field of vision, arms outstretched. “Are you scared, wife?” he taunted, and it happened so quickly that Jon almost missed it. There was a shine of steel, a quick blur in the air, and suddenly Ramsay Bolton was on his back. Sansa’s stride was smooth as the roll of a winter storm as she approached him on the ground, with blood gargling in his throat. A long moment later his choked sounds ceased, and when the light had gone out of his eyes Sansa Stark turned and left the courtyard, head held high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is! Let me know if I did our characters justice. I struggled a lot with these scenes, and I may go back and fill in that week-long gap at some point. I knew where I wanted this to end, so I figured I'd put this out and move on.


	6. Chapter 6

Jon found her in her chambers, still clad in men’s clothing that was far too loose on her. Her auburn hair flickered around her face as she stared into the coals of her fire, watching the last few embers dance. 

“Who taught you how to throw a dagger?” 

“No one taught me, really. I just learned.” Her voice was barely above a murmur as she drew the tiniest of patterns on her knee. He didn’t dare break the silence she left. “When Littlefinger told me that I would be coming home, to marry Ramsay, I just decided it would be better if I knew how to defend myself. Everyone knew what he was, _who_ he was. I’m not a stupid little girl anymore, you know.” Her tone had creeped higher and higher the more she spoke, yet she hadn’t turned to face him yet. 

“I didn’t think you were, Sansa. You just surprised us all today.” The fire was fading quickly, and Jon threw another log in, watching his sister’s hair turn from auburn to copper in the brightening light. She looked less like Catelyn as she grew older, her skin and eyes transforming to the icy sheen of the North more with every passing day. An unfamiliar warmth rose in his chest, and he stuffed it down as quickly as he could.

“Lady Sansa?” A voice called, knocking Jon out of his reverie. “Come in,” she replied, her voice carrying just enough weight to be heard. 

Maester Wolkan stepped inside, his hands wringing together. “There’s a party approaching the gates, my lady. We thought you’d want to be in attendance.

“Thank you, Maester. I will meet you there.” Familiar with dismissal, he nodded and excused himself, shutting the door behind him. “If you’d excuse me, Jon, I need to dress for our unexpected guests.” 

The strange feeling that had warmed his chest a moment ago flared back to life at the thought of her dressing, and he was sure his cheeks were flaming as he too excused himself and headed down the stairs, to wait for Sansa in the courtyard. He didn’t have any official position at Winterfell yet, but for now he considered himself a sworn sword in her service. It was all he had left to do, in honesty, and it gave him a sense of purpose. 

When she appeared at his side in a tightly-laced gown, he found his attention wandering to the sway of her hips, the slight heel to her boots giving her the tiniest bit of a swagger as they crossed the courtyard to wait near the gates. She had re-braided her hair in the Northern style, and wisps of it eddied around her neck and shoulders. It was no longer than a few minutes before the gates swung open to two figures, their figures heavy with many layers of furs. The first was pulling the second on a crudely-made cart, and Jon recognized neither of the wind-bitten, frosty faces. 

Which is why, when Sansa took off at a run, he nearly reached for Longclaw strapped to his back. He followed after at a slower pace as she flung herself onto the cart, her arms wrapped around the figure, and it took Jon a shameful amount of time to recognize his brother Bran, his face pink and pale, his arms hesitantly coming to envelope Sansa as well. He gave her her time, and when she was finished, he came forward almost as quickly to catch Bran in a similar hug, having not realized how much he had missed him until that moment. 

“Thank the gods you’re back, Bran!” Sansa exclaimed breathlessly. 

“Yes,” said Bran, his eyes straying to Jon’s. “Thank the gods.” 

* * *

Sansa decided against a formal welcome in the Great Hall and instead shepherded Bran up to her solar, instructing a few of her men to give his companion Meera a spacious chamber in the guest wing and to ensure her comfort. She placed Bran on her left, as near to the fire as she dares, and Jon to her right, and settled in to hear his story. His face wasn’t cold, but also wasn’t as excited as she expected he would be to see his siblings again. She glanced at Jon, and found him already staring at her before flicking his glance away. Liquid heat pooled in her belly, followed immediately by confusion. She blamed the closeness of the fire, and turned back to Bran, whose eyes were trained on some faraway spot. 

“Bran, where have you been?” Sansa gently pried. She knew he wasn’t dead as Theon originally postured, but after that, no one had seen or heard from Bran or Rickon in all of the North. She had reached out to the Umbers and the Karstarks when she first came to Winterfell all those months before, but her brothers were ghosts in all but reality. 

“North. I know things now, and I need to tell you-”

“Things?” Sansa knew she was interrupting, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. “Could you be a little more specific?” 

“I’m getting there. First, Jon-”

“Bran! At least tell me why you’ve been gone for so long. I’ve been searching for you for months!” Her facade was breaking quickly. It had been a long day before he showed up at the gates, and his crypticism was wearing on her. 

“I went North with Meera and I found the Three-Eyed Raven. He’s a greenseer, and he taught me how to look into the weirwoods.” 

“This sounds like one of Old Nan’s stories,” Jon murmured. “Grumkins and snarks…” 

“I know it’s far-fetched, but I have visions now. I can see things, things from the past and things from the future. It’s confusing and I haven’t quite worked everything out, but it’s important that you listen to me. Daenerys Targaryen is almost to Dragonstone.” 

“Daenerys?” Her face was crinkled in confusion until her lessons came back to her. “The Mad King’s daughter? I thought they fled to Essos, years ago. Why would she sail to Dragonstone?”

“Sansa, there is so much to explain, and I need to speak to Jon first. Can your questions wait until tomorrow?” 

“They can, but…” 

“Jon, I have rather important news for you. Would you like to speak in private?”

He and Sansa shared a long, uneasy glance, and he could see her fingers fidgeting again. “We can speak here, Bran.” 

“I know who your mother is.” Jon’s heart leapt in his chest. He had longed to know his entire life. He had dreamed that she was beautiful, and highborn, but to have a face, a name… “Who is she?”

“Lyanna Stark.” 

“Lyanna?” Sansa’s head whipped back and forth between Bran and Jon, trying to place the wiggling feeling in her chest. “But Father…” 

“Eddard Stark is not your father, Jon.” Bran was trying to be gentle, Jon could tell, but it wasn’t effective. 

“Who’s my father, then?” A question he never thought he would have to ask, and yet…

“Rhaegar Targaryen. Lyanna ran off with him, and when Father found her in Dorne, she had just given birth to you. You’re the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna.” 

The smoke from the fire swirled upward, and Jon’s head swirled with it. He didn’t realize the tight grip he had on the chair until he felt Sansa’s fingertips soothing his knuckles, and he choked out, “I’m not even your brother.”

“You’re our cousin,” Sansa whispered, and when their eyes met, Jon felt something crackle in the air between them, her touch lingering on the back of his hand. He snatched his hand away and practically ran from her solar, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving Sansa, Bran, and his new identity roasting near the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, tell me what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Things should be getting a bit lighter now. Thank you all for reading!

Jon still hadn’t reappeared by suppertime, when Sansa feasted her bannerman in celebration of Bran’s return home, and she found herself feeling more lonely than usually with his empty seat to her right. Bran hadn’t wanted the feast, knowing somehow how deep her exhaustion had settled in her chest, but she had insisted. The Stark name still meant something in the North, and she would feast each and every one of her siblings that returned to her from now on. Arya and Rickon were still missing, and Sansa ached to fill the high table with their presence.

She found herself gulping her wine down with more intensity than usual. Sansa was usually reserved to one cup at suppertime, just enough to ease down her food, but tonight she was cold and the wine warmed her. Her bannermen toasted to Bran’s good health, and to hers, and to Winterfell, and by the time the toasts were finished she had downed three cups in total and was no longer hunched in her seat. For the first time in years, she felt truly free, like a bird in truth instead of name. 

She smiled down at Bran on her left, and reached over to pat his forearm resting on the table. “I’m so happy you’re home!” Sansa exclaimed, perhaps a bit loudly due to the way her brother winced. He didn’t answer her, though, simply nodding before turning his gaze back outwards, eyes far away. _I wish Jon were here instead,_ she groused internally. Jon was quiet, but he was always willing to listen to her prattle, which it seemed Bran was not. Sansa shrugged and returned to her wine glass, disappointed to see it empty once again. 

By the time the feast was over, she felt warm, happy, and very sleepy. It would have been rude of the Lady of Winterfell to excuse herself too early, so Sansa had stayed until there were only a few revelers left in the halls in the late hours of the night. She nodded to them as they bowed when she left the hall, and she had to resist the urge to skip as she wandered the halls, her feet stumbling ever so slightly as she turned a corner and another. Before long, she found herself at her door, and she let herself in and collapsed in her bed without so much as unlacing her gown and fell into a deep, untroubled sleep for the first time she could remember in years. 

* * *

Sansa awoke several hours later, sweating so profusely that her hair was plastered to the back of her neck and her dress was unaccountably damp. She made to roll over, but instead was met with resistance. Panic immediately overtook her, and she scrambled backwards, falling off the bed with a loud thump and a squeak as she hit the floor. 

A loud grumble emanated from the bed, and Sansa slid backwards across the floor as fast as she could, until she hit cold stone at her back and could go no further. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she realized she wasn’t in her chambers at all. Her wardrobe was in the wrong place, and the room itself was much too small, and the bed was much too small as well.

As she caught her breath, the furs shifted on the bed and a figure sat up. Sansa could make out a well-muscled bicep and torso, lean and smooth, and as his face turned toward her she realized who she was looking at.

“Jon, I’m so sorry. I came back from the feast and I must have gotten turned around, I thought these were my chambers and I fell asleep so quickly, I didn’t even notice that I was here. I don’t know how I didn’t notice you in the bed but I must have had much more to drink than I thought, and-”

“Sansa,” he cut her off, and she suddenly realized she was babbling. “It’s quite alright, I wasn’t bothered.” He pushed his hair out of his face to scrub at his eyes and she realized that her eyes were tracing the cords of muscle on his arm with far more intensity than she should be, and she was glad his fire was low enough he couldn’t see the blush on her cheeks. “Right. Well, I should go back to my chambers, then.” 

“Let me walk you back. It’s late for you to be out alone.” There was a halfhearted argument in her throat, but he was already out of bed before she got a word out and the sight of his back in the glow of the embers was too beautiful to interrupt. “If you don’t mind,” she murmured softly. Smoothing her dress as she stood up, she averted her eyes until he had pulled on a pair of breeches and a soft undershirt and then followed him silently into the hallway. 

They walked side by side through the empty halls, her eyes trained on the ground in front of them until they reached her chambers. Only then did she look up, to find his gaze already on hers with a burning intensity, mirroring the stiffness in his posture. “Are you alright?” she asked softly, her hand coming instinctively to soothe over his clenched fist. 

He sighed heavily and shook his head, scraping his hair away with an angry hand. “No, Sansa, I’m not. I was so happy that Bran came home, and then I found out about Father… about Ned, and my mother, and I don’t know what to think! I don’t know what’s real anymore,” he finished in an almost broken whisper, and Sansa tugged on his fist until it was Jon that crumpled in her arms, and her hands that smoothed over his hair and traced patterns on his neck while he sobbed out angry cries into her chest. When he aggressively wiped away a lingering tear from his cheek, Sansa opened the door to her chamber and pulled him with her, kicking off her shoes until she sat both of them down on the edge of her bed. 

“I don’t know what any of this means,” he finally muttered, turning her hand over in his to play with her fingertips. “I’m glad that I finally know who my mother was, but I don’t feel glad. I’m still a bastard, only now I’m a royal bastard instead of our … your father’s bastard. Oh gods, does that make me a Blackfyre?” The horrified look on his face made Sansa chuckle. 

“It makes you Jon.” She watched his hands with hers, the way he smoothed over the length of her finger before moving to the next, and she finally tangled her hand with his to try to ease his nervous motions. “You’re still you. You’re a Stark, who was raised at Winterfell. The blood of the North still runs through your veins, no matter who your father was.” 

His eyes met hers, and she was surprised at the longing in them. “I’m not a Stark.”

“You are to me.” She held his gaze firmly. “You’re as much a Stark as I am.” 

“I’m Rhaegar’s son,” he said desperately. 

“And I’m Catelyn Tully’s daughter,” she fired back. “I’m only half Stark, same as you, yet you wouldn’t dare to deny that I am a Stark. The woman matters too.” 

“Aye,” he agreed, “the woman matters too.” He looked at her more intensely then, and she was afraid that her hand would start to sweat in his, yet she didn’t dare pull it away. Instead, she gripped his fingers more firmly, taking in the tired creases around his eyes, the strand of hair that was threatening to fall over his forehead, the slight pout to his lips, and in the wake of her brother’s confession, maybe the tightening in her stomach wasn’t so worrying. 

He brushed her hair behind her ear gently, and then his lips pressed to her cheek so lightly it felt like a caress, so peacefully that her eyes drifted shut of their own accord. “I should go back to my chambers,” he murmured, inches from her ear, and his fingers were still playing with the tips of her hair where it landed halfway down her arm. 

Eyes still shut, she mumbled “You could stay.” 

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest, and he stroked her hair once more. “It’s not very proper for a widowed lady to have an unmarried man in her chambers.” 

Laughing softly, she looked up at him warmly. “Go, then, before you start any untoward rumors about me.”

“I’ll see you when you break your fast, my lady,” he promised, and shut the door softly behind him, the light from the hall disappearing with him.


End file.
